The Devil's Monk Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Thomas Potts Mysteries by Sara Fraser From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Thomas Potts Mysteries by Sara Fraser from Severn House

  THE RELUCTANT CONSTABLE

  THE RESURRECTION MEN

  THE DROWNED ONES

  SUFFER THE CHILDREN

  TIL DEATH DO US PART

  THE DEVIL’S MONK

  THE DEVIL’S MONK

  Sara Fraser

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Sara Fraser.

  The right of Sara Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Fraser, Sara author.

  The Devil’s Monk. – (The Thomas Potts mysteries)

  1. Potts, Thomas (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Police–England–

  Redditch–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8502-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-604-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-655-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Parish of Tardebigge, Worcestershire.

  Monday, 13 July, 1829

  The overnight breezes had died away, and in the clear sky the crescent moon was fading as dawn spread. Concealed in a copse of thick woodland, the tramp lying upon a makeshift bed of fern and bracken grunted and stirred into bleary-eyed consciousness. Casting aside the soiled greasy blanket, he clambered stiffly to his feet, limped to the edge of the trees and stared across the river-bisected valley towards the broad outcrop of steeply rising ground where several tall chimney stacks marked the northern edges of the Needle District of Redditch Town and its satellite villages straddling the Worcestershire–Warwickshire border.

  He fingered the long, thick stubble on his grimy face and throat, and thought, Well, before you goes any further, my bucko, you’d best get down to that water and get rid o’ this lot.

  He collected his blanket and large canvas bag and made his way to the river where he stripped to the waist, laved away the grime on his face and neck and carefully trimmed the stubble with a cut-throat razor. Afterwards, he took a battered military shako and shabby red uniform tunic from the bag and put them on. Stood to ‘Attention’, saluted smartly and announced out loud: ‘Corporal George Maffey, Sir. Fourteen years’ service in the Thirty-second Foot, Sir. Invalided out after Waterloo, Sir.’

  He repacked and shouldered the bag, then limped along the bank. The pasture he was in had very recently been harvested and as he was passing a large, newly thatched haystack he halted abruptly, staring hard at the motionless figure sprawled on the haystack’s wide, flat stone platform. He took a few steps towards the figure, and again halted abruptly.

  ‘Fuckin’ hell’s bells! Who smashed your head in!’ he grunted, and limped as fast as he could towards the nearby turnpike road.

  Gripped in the terrible nightmare of a woman’s anguished screams dinning in his ears, Tom Potts was thrashing about in his narrow cot, shouting in desperate frustration, fighting with all his strength to break through the impenetrable black cloud that enveloped him.

  Amy Potts rushed up into the dark garret, a lighted lamp in one hand, a bucket full of cold water in the other. She bent to place the lamp on the floor, then hurled the cold water into her writhing husband’s face.

  He jerked upright, gasping and choking for breath as she berated furiously, ‘You’re doing it again, you great fool! Waking me up and destroying my rest! You’re driving me out of me bloody mind!’

  Full awareness came to Tom and, wiping his face upon the bed sheet, he ruefully apologised. ‘I’m truly sorry, my love, but it was the same nightmare again. I could hear your screams and couldn’t come to your aid.’

  ‘Ohhh, “I’m truly sorry, my love, but it was the same nightmare!”’ She spat the words back at him, then turned and went down the narrow stairs, shouting, ‘You can cook your own bloody breakfast! I’m going to the Fox for mine!’

  He sighed despondently, levered his exceptionally lanky body from the bed, pulled on a shirt and breeches, slipped his feet into boots, lifted the lamp and made his own way downstairs.

  The slamming of the outer door signalled his wife’s departure and he could only sigh sadly, thinking: How much longer is this terrible moodiness of yours going to continue, Amy?

  As George Maffey limped up the steep Fish Hill, which led up on to the wide central plateau of Redditch Town, the early ‘Waking Bells’ were ringing out from Needle Mills and workshops, rousing from sleep the mass of the town’s population who earned their living from that industry.

  When he reached the broad, flat triangular Green he stood for a few moments, staring at
the rows of buildings which enclosed it.

  A man emerged from a nearby house and Maffey accosted him. ‘I needs to speak wi’ a constable straight away, Master. Can you please name one and direct me to him?’

  ‘Ahhrrr, I can, Soldier Boy. He’s called Tom Potts and he lives in the Lock-Up down the bottom there. That place that looks like a little castle.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Master.’ Maffey limped on towards the grey-stone castellated building standing on the eastern corner of the Green’s triangle; separated from its neighbours by the bordering roadways which merged then forked again to continue eastwards.

  He mounted the three steps on to the narrow stone platform which fronted the building and tugged on the long, thin iron bell pull which hung at the side of the large Gothic-arched, metal-studded door.

  Bells jangled inside the building and after a brief interval the door creaked open. Maffey blinked in surprise as a half-dressed elongated figure appeared in the doorway and enquired in the accents of an educated Gentleman, ‘Good Morning to you, Soldier. Can I be of assistance to you?’

  ‘Might you be Tom Potts, the constable?’ Maffey queried, frowning doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, indeed I am.’ Tom could not help but smile wryly at his caller’s expression.

  Maffey immediately stiffened and saluted smartly. ‘Corporal George Maffey, Sir. Fourteen years’ service in the Thirty-second Foot, Sir. Invalided out after Waterloo, Sir.’ He held out a folded piece of parchment. ‘Here’s my license to beg, Sir, which I’m hoping to get your kind permission to make use of in this parish, Sir.’

  Tom took the proffered parchment and briefly scanned its contents, then handed it back. ‘Very well, Corporal Maffey, your license looks to be in order, so you may beg throughout this parish. But I must warn you not to beg aggressively, or to pester those who are reluctant to give.’

  ‘Ohhh, I’d never do that, Sir. I’m a man of honour, I am,’ Maffey assured him.

  ‘I’m sure you are, Corporal Maffey. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have urgent tasks to fulfil.’

  Tom stepped back and began to close the door, but Maffey stopped him. ‘Hold hard, Sir, if you please. I’ve stumbled on to summat this morning down in the valley that you really must needs see for yourself. It’s a dead ’un, Sir. And although I’ve seen more dead ’uns that I can wish to recall, this one is summat real extraordinary, Sir. You needs to come see it for yourself; it’s real extraordinary, so it is.’

  TWO

  ‘There now, Sir, what did I tell you? It’s real extraordinary, aren’t it! You’d have to travel a lot o’ miles afore you’d see the likes of this dead ’un again, Sir!’ Maffey’s manner was that of a showman presenting his latest attraction.

  Tom’s dark eyes were intently studying the corpse lying sprawled with out-flung arms and legs, its blood-caked, bulging-eyed features and head grotesquely distorted and surrounded by a pool of coagulated blood and brain matter. Although dressed in a man’s long-sleeved waistcoat, loose-fitting shirt, breeches and ankle boots, it had the long hair of a woman and Tom bent to loosen the shirt laces and confirm the swell of feminine breasts.

  The sun was now well risen and the burgeoning warmth had roused the flies which were swarming on to this feast of blood and body wastes.

  Tom’s mind was racing as he gently fingered the woman’s neck, shoulders and upper arms before straightening upright and asking his companion: ‘Corporal Maffey, might you have a blanket in your bag that you could sell me? I promise to pay you well for it.’

  Maffey hastened to present Tom with the blanket, and Tom used it to carefully cover the dead woman. ‘Corporal Maffey, will you place yourself under my direction for this day? I’ll pay you for your services,’ Tom requested.

  The other man flashed up a rigid salute. ‘Corporal Maffey is now enlisted in your service, Sir. Please to give me your orders, Sir.’

  He listened silently while Tom gave long and detailed instructions.

  In the kitchen parlour of the Fox and Goose Inn, three of the women seated around the table had devoured breakfasts of freshly baked bread plastered thickly with beef dripping and washed down with foaming tankards of ale. The fourth woman had eaten nothing, and taken only a few sips from her tankard.

  Appetite satisfied, Gertie Fowkes, the fat, florid-featured wife of the innkeeper, Tommy Fowkes, gusted a belch of satisfaction and narrowed her puff-balled eyes at the fourth woman.

  ‘Now then, Amy Potts, let’s hear what the problem is. You sitting there again wi’ a face like a wet week and not ateing a morsel? What’s up wi’ you?’

  ‘Nothing’s really up wi’ her, Mam. She just wants us all to keep on feeling sorry for her. You’d think she was the first woman in the world to miscarry a babby, wouldn’t you?’ Gertie’s daughter, Lily, a physically younger version of her mother, sneered spitefully. ‘She should do what the rest of us women do. Just get over it and get pregnant again. That’s always supposing that Tom Potts is able for it, o’ course. Because these days he looks like he arn’t got the strength to kill a bloody gnat, let alone give his Missus a good seeing to.’

  Buxom barmaid, Maisie Lock, long-term friend and confidant of Amy Potts, immediately offered battle. ‘It’s easy for you to say that Amy should just have another try at birthing, aren’t it, Lily. Seeing as how youm too fat and nasty to have ever managed to get any bloke to babby you.’

  ‘That’s enough o’ that, you pair!’ Gertie Fowkes snapped sharply and ordered. ‘Now set about finishing your chores this instant, or I’ll be taking a stick to both your arses. Go on! Bugger off!’

  Huffing and puffing indignantly, the pair obeyed and, as the door closed behind them, Gertie Fowkes smiled kindly at Amy and said gently, ‘Listen, my duck, it’s nigh on five months since you lost that babby. You should surely be getting over it by now. It’s just one o’ them natural things us women have to bear. God only knows I’ve lost enough of them in my time. But as soon as you gets another little mite stirring in your belly, I guarantee you’ll feel as right as rain again!’

  Amy made no reply, only sat silent with her head bowed and hands clasped upon her lap.

  The older woman, who loved Amy almost as if she were her own daughter, sighed sadly as she mentally contrasted this pale-cheeked, drawn-featured, depressed young woman with the vibrant, rosy-cheeked girl of five months past.

  Amy suddenly drew a hissing intake of breath and lifted her head. ‘Listen, Mrs Fowkes, I need to tell you something, but it must be kept secret between you and me, and you mustn’t breathe a word about what I say to anybody.’

  The older woman didn’t hesitate. ‘If you tells me you wants it kept secret, my duck, then I’ll carry it untold to me grave. Now am you going to tell me that your man is serving you ill? Because if he is the bugger will have to answer to me for it!’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Amy denied vehemently. ‘Tom has never ever treated or spoke to me harshly, although I aren’t let him share my bed or lay a finger on me since I fell pregnant. Nor even this morning did he turn on me when I chucked a bucket o’ water over him in his bed. He’s a truly good, kind man, which makes me feel even worse about what I wants to say now.’

  ‘Which is?’ Gertie Fowkes frowned doubtfully.

  ‘That I wants to leave him, and come back here to live and work,’ Amy stated firmly.

  ‘You can’t mean that?’ the older woman screeched in disbelief.

  ‘I do mean it,’ Amy declared.

  ‘But respectable, good living women like us never ever leave their husbands!’ Gertie Fowkes was shouting agitatedly now. ‘No! Not even when they’ve got a rotten bugger who knocks ’um about and keeps ’um in rags! Women who leave their husbands always goes to the bad, and become dirty prostitutes that every decent woman spits on!’

  The door slammed open and the rotund figure of Tommy Fowkes filled the wide doorway. ‘What’s all this bloody racket, Missus Fowkes? What’ll my customers say when they comes in and hears you blarting and screeching like a bloody slum
bitch?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘They can say whatever they got a mind to say, Master Fowkes, because I don’t give a bugger for any of ’um! Nor for you neither, come to that!’ she shouted defiantly.

  Dismayed that she had inadvertently caused this heated confrontation between the couple, Amy immediately rose and went to stand facing the man.

  ‘It’s my fault that Mrs Fowkes is so upset, Master Fowkes.’

  Tommy Fowkes, who had always favoured Amy, smiled down at her. ‘Why so, Amy? What have you said to upset her?’

  Amy swallowed hard and summoned all her resolve. ‘I told her that I wanted to leave my husband and to come back here to live and work.’

  ‘What!’ Tommy Fowkes could not believe he had heard her correctly.

  During the years that Amy had lived and worked at the Fox and Goose she had come to know Tommy Fowkes’s character very well, and now she used that knowledge.

  ‘I was a good, honest barmaid, wasn’t I, Master Fowkes? I know that there’ll be people in this town who’ll think that I’ve loose morals because I’ve left my husband and, like they always do, men will be throwing their money over the counter and buying drinks for all the house to try and impress me. But you know very well that I’d die before I’d ever bring any stain upon the good name of the Fox.’

  While Amy was speaking, Gertie Fowkes’s own sense of guilt began to torment her. She felt that it was her fault that Amy had been forced to tell Tommy Fowkes the shared secret that she, Gertie, had just sworn to take to her grave. Now she intervened.